Silent Treatment
by Javanyet
Summary: For Mike & Bonnie Chicago was a beginning, but Bonnie shuts Mike out when she believes he has betrayed her trust. With Peter's help Mike goes to great lengths to change her mind, learning more about her as he does.
1. Loose Lips

Peter and Mike sat outside the production office, waiting for Micky and Davy to arrive for the script meeting and read-through. Peter and Mike tended to arrive early for these in hopes of getting them over with sooner. Micky and Davy tended to arrive late in an effort to avoid them as long as possible. A couple hours after the script meeting, a costume meeting was scheduled. Bob had decided it was time for a "new look", something that looked more hip, and distinguished them from one another as characters. Genie (no last professional name), a new designer brought in from England who dressed all the hip young stars, had persuaded Bob to address the guys' real-life characters as much as possible, which meant this would be one of the "defining" meetings everyone (in the cast) hated so much.

Given the rush of meetings and rehearsals after returning from the tour a few days ago, this was the first time Peter had caught Mike alone and was able to talk for a few minutes. He informed Mike that their recording and concert sound engineer Chip had seen Mike leaving Bonnie's hotel room the morning after the Chicago gig. Peter had sworn Chip to secrecy, for fear of causing all sorts of upheaval. He really had no idea what that circulating story might lead to, but he _did_ know that when things went crazy in their world of barely controlled chaos that everyone was capable of going crazy with them. And Mike, of all people, would be a bad choice to be at the center of it. As for Bonnie, he didn't want to chance causing her any trouble. Chip was a good guy, and on their side regarding their music battles. When he gave his word to keep his mouth shut, Peter knew he'd keep it.

So now Mike was trying his best to explain, to himself as well as Peter, what had gone on, and not gone on, in Chicago, and most importantly why. It was a tall order, since he wasn't all that sure himself. And if it were anyone but Peter, whose position as a fellow musician-turned-actor engendered some solidarity and trust, he'd frankly have told them to fuck off.

"No, Pete, it's not just about what I feel about her, it's about how I feel about _me_ when we're together even for a few minutes. Or how I _don't _feel. I don't feel trapped and pissed off, I don't feel like I'm waiting for things to be better. I just feel like, for right then, things are just the right way. Aw man, you know I'm not all over that that hearts and flowers shit you're into, but something in the air just settles down, _I _settle down, mostly, and when I'm not settled down that's okay too, because I can just let it be and feel like I'm not fighting anyone about it. Can you dig any of that? But her and me, we just never thought about what's happening, or not happening, it just sort of goes like it goes. I can write songs up the ass but coming up with words that make sense of this is a real stretch."

"I think I get it," Peter told him. "It sounds like something's come up on the two of you, and if it's like you say and just makes things feel natural, good or bad, then I think that's really cool. I didn't mean to dig into your life, it's hard enough to have one in the middle of all this." He laughed then, and where it would be cynical coming from someone else, coming from Peter it was more a laugh of discovery. "Speaking of words, 'careful what you wish for' comes to mind! We may have what we wanted, but it looks like it has _us_ too." Then Regular Guy Pete overcame Ethereal Pete, and he asked, "So you really didn't get it on that night?"

"Yeah, can you believe it? " Mike told him in a tone bordering on astonishment, "Mike Nesmith, the groupie-groper deluxe. We even slept in the same bed. Well, _on_ the same bed. And nothing happened."

Sensing he was on safe ground, now Peter's eyes narrowed mischievously. "_Nothing?_ I mean besides the real stuff you've been talking about. How could all that deep talk start from 'nothing'and _lead_ to 'nothing'. I know you both man, and I know whatever 'nothing' it started, it came from you, not her."

Mike shifted a little and the smile he barely suppressed made him look like a kid caught in a fib. "Well, okay, yeah… I admit there was a little mouth-to-mouth goin' on, and I guess there would've been more if either one of us had been, ah, _prepared_, if you know what I mean. And yeah, I started it, back at the dressing room. But I still don't know _why_ I started it, then and there, and man, from there all bets were off. But I swear, what did and didn't happen… just seemed like the _right_ thing."

Peter was grinning and nodding. "Fair enough. But after you gave her that speech about getting it on with teenagers, you're lucky she didn't kick your ass out the door."

"Nah, man, it wasn't like that." Serious again, Mike was shaking his head, "You just don't get it."

"I get it," Peter reached out and patted Mike's shoulder. "Sounds like you got a lot more important stuff done than the rest of us did that night."

"Yeah well thanks for listenin'. And thanks for telling Chip to keep his 'news' to himself!"

Mike had told him everything, beginning to end, hoping saying it out loud would help him figure it out himself. It worked, kind of, up to a point. It never occurred to him to tell Peter how important it was to keep a key part of Bonnie's back-story to himself. Peter wasn't the gossiping kind, and really it wasn't that big a deal that he even remembered it himself.

"Nice you could show up," Mike called out when he saw Davy and Micky approach. Looking at his watch, he added, "And on time! Call the devil, Pete, and tell him to sharpen his ice skates."

Just then the office door opened and Bob emerged, like a combination grand poobah/father to the multitudes.

"Okay boys, off to the conference room! Peter, let's discuss some character stuff on the way, the rest of you go on and we'll catch up. Bonnie, run on ahead and fire up the coffee, will ya? Thanks babe."

Bonnie rolled her eyes and muttered, "Yahz massah…"

"Black, two sugars… and make it _snappy!_" Micky cracked.

As she trotted ahead of the guys, Bonnie reached out to smack Micky neatly on the back of the head as she passed, cracking up the other three. It was her non-verbal comeback of choice when Micky was being a wise ass, which was most of the time.

"Ow! Hey, Bob," Micky called out in an exaggerated whine, "make her quit hitting me!"

Absorbed in talking with Peter as they brought up the rear, Bob looked ahead briefly and responded, "Can't, it's in her contract," then returned to his attention to the conversation.

* * *

><p>The script meeting in many ways was like any other: suggestions led to justification triggering bitching, garnished with a little table-pounding from various parties. In this case, though, the spasms of disagreement were relieved, surprisingly, by Bob's increased willingness to listen. Increased, no doubt (though he'd never admit it in so many words) by the roaring success of the tour. The guys' insistence to be allowed to behave like real musicians, i.e. actually playing music, had worked out so well that Bob was listening with new ears… to a point. One of those points was that the focus would be shifted, "gently", he told them, from the All Davy All the Time strategy to giving the others a little more exposure. Peter's character, for a start, was going to move from "hardcore dummy" to that of a loveable space case with a functioning brain.<p>

"So you mean I'm not retarded any more, I'm just a little slow," Peter observed in a rare show of cynicism. He'd held the comment back until they actually were in the meeting, though it had been in his head since their "talk" on the way to the conference room.

"That's overstating it a little, Pete," Bob corrected. "Just do the read through, okay?"

They did, and it wasn't quite as bad as everyone expected.

"Damn, Bob, I don't wanna besmirch Darwin but it looks like you just may be evolving," Mike noted drily.

"That was gonna be a title for a song, but the lyrics didn't scan right," Micky added.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Bob responded, very deliberately. As always it triggered a sharp response, but he slapped both hands on the table and stood before the shooting could commence.

"Okay, costume meeting. Don't go too far guys, you have fittings in an hour and a half. Bonnie, Genie should be waiting outside, get her in here and we can get this done."

Bonnie stood by the door as the guys filed out. Mike winked slyly as he passed, but she managed not to respond. After that night in her hotel room there had been no other similar nights between them on the tour. True, Mike had been grabbing an occasional kiss when the opportunity presented. "Stealing" didn't seem like the right word, because she gave them up willingly. Other than that, it was just the usual here-and-there talk, maybe standing a little more closely, maybe a casual touch now and then where there hadn't been any before. But anything more was being left for later. Even that lack of physical urgency seemed to add a dimension to things, though they were no more able to figure it out than before. "It is what it is," Mike whispered in her ear before they took the stage on the last night of the tour, "and whatever it is, it's working just fine." She wasn't inclined to disagree.

After the guys were gone, Bonnie leaned out the door. "Hi Genie, c'mon in and let's do it."

Genie was a petite Englishwoman with a riot of long curly light red hair, and she dressed the part of a designer to the hilt. Scarves, beads, fringe, the whole works, but Bonnie couldn't help notice that on her, it worked. As for her own fashion sense, left to her own devices Bonnie would have lived in sandals and blue jeans and t-shirts, or low-key Indian cotton blouses, but for work she stuck to the tailored Carnaby Street stuff: moderately-short mini skirts with wide belts, tailored shirts with contrasting collars and cuffs. Bob encouraged it, in fact, because it echoed the Monkees signature fashion line at JC Penney, which was bringing them in a fat chunk of filthy lucre. But the contract had been altered so the guys weren't required to wear the clothes in every scene, just every show.

"So, show me your magic," Bob invited, and Genie spread her drawings out on the table.

"I came up with a 'theme' for each of the boys, each their own type of 'hip',"she explained.

Both Bob and Bonnie were impressed. For Peter there was a collection of Russian-type shirts with flowing cuffed sleeves and stand-up collars, buttoned along one shoulder or another. The fabrics were paisleys, wild primary color patterns, borderline-psychedelic and suiting the hippie look, paired with tighter-fitting trousers in neutral colors, tucked into high, fringed rawhide boots. Davy's look was a variation on this one, except the shirts were Nehru-style, solid colors with border embroidery, bell bottomed-trousers, no blue jeans, and the usual stack-heeled boots. Mickey's were a bit plainer, "Because he's more outgoing to begin with," Genie explained. There were rich velour shirts for everyone in various colors. The only one whose "new look" didn't entirely favor the hip young hippie-inspired fashions was Mike.

"I just don't think the soft fabrics and wild color would work," she explained. "I think we should keep it casual," and she displayed a series of sketches of jeans, denim and other types of typical open-collared shirts in deep pastel and primary colors, a few fringed rawhide pullovers and fleece-lined rawhide jackets. "He's a big chap, too much pattern would be overwhelming." The shoes she chose were the standard boots the others had, along with some knee-high rawhide boots similar to those designed for Peter, but without the fringe.

"I have to say, Genie, you've already given me my money's worth," Bob told her. "The samples are done up, right?"

"Yeah, Bob," Bonnie assured him. She hadn't seen the sketches or swatches before now, but the costume team already had the measurements. "We'll see to the details at the fitting, and see how they actually look on the guys."

"Agreed," Genie nodded, "it may seem brilliant on paper, but…"

"The human body can be _so_ uncooperative," Bonnie acknowledged.

"For _christ_sake don't say 'uncooperative'," Bob admonished, "they don't need any encouragement!"

Genie gathered up her sketches and swatches. "Bonnie, I'll meet you and your powers of observation and note-taking in the costume shop in half an hour."

Bonnie rose to leave as well, but Bob stopped her.

"Hang with me a minute, will you? There's something I need to talk to you about."

Puzzled but not concerned, Bonnie sat down again as Bob closed the door behind Genie and joined her again at the table.

"Look, babe, I'm not one to get involved in the personal stuff, but I just wanted to clear something up… word is that you 'fluffed up' your music cred when you applied for the job. I just want you to know that it's not a problem. You do your job just fine by me, and I'm not one of those by-the-book guys anyway. Get it?"

Bonnie gulped. "Yeah, sure Bob, thanks. That all? I gotta get to the costume shop."

"That's all, take off."

Bonnie tried not to race from the room, tried not to slam the door behind her, and tried hardest not to cry. She was on the verge of making only two out of three, but then she saw him, slouched in the hallway, lazing behind those fucking shades, and rage burned every tear out of her.


	2. Sinking Ships

Mike was cooling his heels near the sound stage when Bonnie came storming down the corridor from Bob's office. He hadn't been waiting for her, but since she was here and nobody else was around…

"Hey Morris, how about a little sugar?" He rose with a smile and reached for her... and hit the equivalent of a brick wall.

"You sonofa_bitch!_" she snapped, slapping his hand away. "You lying, sleazy piece of _shit!_"

Mike Nesmith could count the times he'd been totally blindsided on the fingers of one hand. Once was when he got the call that he'd been cast in the Monkees. Another was when his wife announced she was leaving him. More recently, the first reception by screaming fans at JFK airport. But _this_ one was a mind-bender.

"Wha-" he began, but she got right up in his face to cut him off.

"You said 'your secret is safe with me'," she hissed, "but then, you said lots things. I guess I should've listened to some more than others, Mr. High Life Dick. So what else did you shoot your mouth off about, and to who? Did you tell the guys how you _almost_ got laid and didn't have to give up an autograph in the morning?"

Though he was more than just taken aback, Mike managed not to stammer. "Morris, I don't know what the _hell_ you're talking about." He realized as he looked at Bonnie that her face was probably a mirror image of his own when he was out of control, "What _happened_?"

"My god, you're a better actor than anyone gives you credit for, aren't you?" she mumbled at the ceiling, then turned her anger on Mike again, "Tell you one thing, I know now what _didn't_happen, in addition to you not getting bragging rights for screwing the boss's assistant. Correction, you screwed her all right," she faltered and added in a fading voice, "you screwed _me…_ talking about 'why'… holy shit, why was I such a sucker?"

Her face transformed with a look of such pain it staggered Mike even more than her outburst; he was convinced she was about to cry. What the hell did she think he'd done? He reached a hand out to touch her just once, to calm her down, "C'mere, sit down, _talk_ to me…"

He slid his shades up onto his head, and for some reason that burnt the last of her fuse. She snatched the shades from his head and flung them down the hall, and smacked away his other hand so hard the nerves in his shoulder tingled.

"Bob and I just had a little chat," Bonnie explained coldly, "he told me not to sweat the details of my references, because he's real happy with how things have worked out."

"_What?_" Mike's voice rose at least an octave on the word. "I swear, I didn't say word one…"

Bonnie wasn't having any. "Shut _up_!" she all-but shouted at him. "There's nothing you can say that I'll waste another stinking _minute_ listening to, and I have _nothing_ to say to you, got it? _Nothing._ Now get your lying cowboy ass to Costuming, you've got a fitting in twenty."

With that, she tore off down the hall, leaving Mike staring after her.

Twenty feet behind him, Micky stooped to pick up Mike's shades where they'd finally skidded to a stop by his feet. He'd only caught Bonnie's parting words, and now he walked to where Mike was standing, and stuck the shades in the latter's shirt pocket. Both men stared down the hall.

"Jesus Christ, man, what did you do to set her off like that?" Micky asked. This was no joking smack-to-the-head, and he knew it, though he wouldn't have asked more than that one question if his life depended on it.

"Damned if I know, Mick," Mike answered in a vague voice, "and she sure as shit ain't tellin'."


	3. Desperate Times

Bonnie stood in the doorway of the large dressing room off the main costume shop. Four racks of costumes stood along the back wall, intended for each of the guys so they could do a brief dress parade for Genie's approval.

"Okay, guys, we're making this as painless as possible. Your costume lists are on the clipboards hanging from the racks. Doesn't matter what order you take them, just make sure all the right parts are together so we don't get screwed up. These are just prototypes, if the look works Genie's gonna finalize these and develop some others. If you like the boots, keep 'em, and if you really like the styles, Bob said we could make some for you to keep."

"Sneaking into our daily lives, reaching _tendrils_ into our minds, to own us _forever_… buwahahahaha..." Micky intoned in a mystical whisper to the other three.

"I _heard_ that, Micky, and your mind could use some tendrils to hold it together."

Davy mimed getting punched in the gut, and then stood at attention, "I promise to be a good boy, Bonnie."

"First time for everything," she responded with a tight smile, "and just a reminder," she told them all, "constructive suggestions, good or bad, will be noted. Bitching and whining will be ignored. Adjustments in overall design will be minor, and Genie and Bob's word is final. Got it? Okay, Micky rack 1, David rack 2, Peter rack 3, and Nesmith rack 4. When we're done just pile the stuff neatly by the racks, the wardrobe girls will take it from there."

Davy, Micky, and Peter commenced examining the lists, then the clothes. Mike went through the motions, then looked over to Bonnie and mouthed, "Talk after?"

She shook her head tersely, and went out to join Genie.

Things moved fairly quickly, and the guys seemed to like what they'd be wearing though Peter expressed a bit of concern, "These pants seem a little tight… they're gonna hold, right?" He was only half kidding.

"Bend down and check your boots, luv," Genie suggested. When he did just that, the room erupted in whistles and catcalls from the female costume crew, and Genie nodded smugly at Bonnie. "Smashing, Peter. We'll reinforce the seams."

He shook his head, grinning broadly. "Any time I can brighten your day ladies, it brightens mine…"

Even Mike seemed satisfied with his "look." In fact he was downright pleased.

"Thanks Genie, I was dying to get out of that J C Penney crap and into some grown up stuff."

He was just about to go back to the dressing room when Bonnie turned to Genie and asked, "Where's the hat?" Mike stopped and turned as if he'd been shot at.

"No hat on the costume list," he informed Bonnie.

Genie shrugged, "I didn't think of it, really."

"I guess Bob didn't think he had to mention it," Bonnie explained, "but the hat stays. It was part of the character from Day One."

"Jesus," Mike bitched, "I thought this was all hip, new look stuff. The hat is a _drag_."

"The hat stays. End of discussion."

Mike appealed to Genie, "C'mon, don't you think that hat is just dumbass, it messes with the whole look."

Genie laughed under her breath to hear the last phrase, which she rightly took as a desperate attempt to appeal to her design sense. "Sorry, Mike, not my decision."

"Morris, the hat is _dumbass_."

She jumped to her feet, "And it's gonna _stay_ on your dumbass head!"

"I'll throw the fucker in the dumpster…" he challenged.

Bonnie sat down again and waved a dismissive hand. "Go ahead, we got _lots_ more. They're a dime a dozen, like lots of things around here."

Mike blinked twice at this, and even Genie took notice.

Bonnie looked up from her notebook and called out toward the back, "Okay guys, once you're back in your street clothes we're done. Bob says long weekend, so you don't have to be back until rehearsal Tuesday at 10."

"Morris, c'mon, gimme _five_ minutes," Mike directed at Bonnie in a lowered voice, as if nobody else were around.

"I said we're _done_, get it?"

"Got it." He stalked away to the dressing room.

At this point, Genie was looking pointedly at Bonnie. "Do I sense a bit of subtext?"

"Nope," Bonnie shook her head (almost) casually, "just another day in the life. Let's coordinate our notes and I'll get 'em to Bob while you work with the costume girls."

* * *

><p>"Bloody hell what was <em>that<em> about?" Davy wanted to know. "She's not half twisted up this morning!"

"Hah, that was nothing," offered Micky, "you shoulda seen her pitch the World Famous Nesmith Shades earlier... hall of fame worthy."

"All _right_," Mike snapped as he finished pulling on his boots. "Just a misunderstanding, no mystery."

Micky didn't buy it, "Yeah, well she almost 'misunderstood' your block off, from where I was standing!" As Mike's glare intensified, he backed off. "Not that I want to know!" Turning to Davy he remarked, "Four days off! I feel a _serious_ case of Whisky a Go-Go coming on…"

"Right behind you, mate, I'm up for some dark dance floors and bright smiling girls," Davy agreed, "see you guys on Tuesday. Keep your left up, Mike." And he followed Micky out the door.

"Ha, ha, ha," Mike drawled in disdain. "Not bad enough everyone knows your business around here, they gotta line up for commentary!" Mike picked up a pair of low-top leather boots and flung them against "his" rack. "Sick of this shit."

Peter was changed and ready to go, but stood watching Mike. "So… what _did_ happen? I mean from what you told me, everything seemed cool, right?"

"Ya'd think… I mean you were at the script meeting. Nothing weird, nothing. Then ten minutes later she comes at me loaded for bear, and I mean _both _barrels. Said Bob told her about something she'd said to me that night in Chicago, about her faked up music references, that she wanted kept quiet."

Peter asked in a queasy voice, "He didn't come down on that, did he?"

"Nah, she said he told her no problem, he's happy with the way things are goin'… hey, man you look a little green. Why'd you ask that, anyway?"

Peter gulped. "Because it was me who told him…" before Mike could react he continued hastily, "we were walking behind all of you, and Bob said something after Bonnie smacked Micky in the head, like he's glad she got a handle on the job and it seemed to be working out. And I said something like yeah, who needed music references anyway, and when he asked me what I meant I told him, and he laughed it off like it was no big deal."

Mike was staring at him, hard. "Well it sure's shit a big deal to _her_, even bigger than I thought when she told me. She is convinced I told him, and Micky was right, even _I _thought she was gonna cold-cock me. As it is she won't listen, she won't talk, she has shut the door down tight and double locked it."

"Well that's easy, then, I'll just tell her it was me and apologize."

Mike was shaking his head at the naïveté of the plan. "Yeah, thanks, but there's two things wrong with that. One is that she begged me not to tell _anybody_, and the other is that this soon after her blowout, she's never gonna believe I didn't put you up to it. She thinks I'm a liar, and that makes it easy to think anyone who'd help me out of this is, too." Mike shook his head and gestured in frustration, then stopped to look square at Peter. "I really like you, man, but right now I could kill you where you stand."

"So could I," a downcast Peter agreed. "She's not listening to anybody is she? Damn. Why can't life be as straightforward as music? Then again this is the _last_ place to be asking that."

"Yeah, music…" Mike repeated vaguely, then stopped in his tracks and lit up as if a switch had been thrown.

"Peter, you are a _stone_ genius. Look, you can take the Cobra for the weekend if you drive me to LAX and pick me up on Monday."

"Sure, but where are you going?"

"New York." Mike broke from his musing and declared, "I need to get the hell outta here for a few days. Head east, hit some clubs and hear some music that doesn't come out of a can."

"Sounds good, clear your head, give Bonnie some space to cool off. When you going?"

"I'll give you a buzz when I'm coming, you gonna be home later?" Peter nodded so Mike slapped his shoulder. "Cool, I got some calls to make. I'll catch you later."

* * *

><p>Six hours and a dozen airport autographs later, Mike handed his boarding pass to a stewardess on the red eye to New York. With any luck his 5 o'clock shadow would grow out enough to add a little visual anonymity once he got to the city. At least more anonymity than he'd have traveling together with the other three and their usual entourage.<p>

"Right this way, Mr. Nesmith. We're flying light tonight… looks like you'll have first class all to yourself. Just ring if you want anything."

"Just a rye and Coke for now, thanks darlin'. I''m gonna grab some z's, wake me up about half hour before we land, okay?"

With a nod and a smile, she was gone. Mike hung his denim jacket from the hook nearby, fitted a pillow against the window and stretched his long legs out across three seats. Reaching into the inside jacket pocket, he fished out a piece of staff paper and looked over what he'd written… six or seven names of acoustic clubs and coffeehouses in the village and at the bottom, one word: Benny.

"Never chased a ghost before," he said aloud to nobody, "good a time as any to start."


	4. Desperate Measures, LA

_Six hours earlier_

Bob was well pleased with the results of the costuming session.

"This is great, girls. It looks like everything you came up with is a go, Genie."

Genie glanced doubtfully at Bonnie. "One thing Bob, Mike thinks the hat isn't going to fit with things. I tend to agree." Genie's guess was that the confrontation she witnessed in the costume shop was less about a hat and more about something else that she'd rather not get into, so she felt safe expressing her opinion. Even if the complaining party _did_ try to manipulate her into the role of ally.

"The hat stays, it's always been part of the character. Season two is about getting more kids to watch, and more kids to want to look like the Monkees. But we don't want the ones who are watching already to wonder what's going on with their favorite Monkee. Micky stays zany, Peter stays goofy, Davy stays baby-face charming, and Mike stays tall, dark, and in the hat. Trust me, Genie."

"Sounds like a laboratory formula," Genie observed.

Bob shrugged. "It's TV, not art. You find a winning formula and you work with it… _very _carefully."

Bonnie sat in silence, not needing to show agreement. Her job was to support the production, and part of that was _never_ to part ways with the boss in front of third parties. She hated that goddamn hat as much as Nesmith did, but it wasn't her call. And in some ways she was glad it gave her a way to keep her distance. He seemed so convincing… _sit down, talk to me, just five minutes…_ She couldn't keep the rage up forever, and once that adrenalin had burnt off there was little left but a bruised feeling. She wanted to know why, when there was a world full of willing strangers to use and discard, she had even registered on Mike Nesmith's radar. Maybe the lack of a challenge got boring… or maybe he just did need a place to crash, and stopped his move on her because with no rubbers handy, the risk wasn't worth it. Or maybe she had it all wrong. _No._ They were the only two people in that hotel room. _Your secret is safe with me. _The way he held her when he said it, the way he held on when she tried to move away… what kind of stone cold bastard could play that way? She'd almost told him all of it, almost backtracked and told him everything, and now she was weak with relief that she hadn't, because having that spread around… well she didn't know if she could handle it. She felt like she'd just missed running off a cliff. _Don't be melodramatic, take a few days to adjust, and you'll see it'll feel different, better. _She knew already she was wrong. She'd feel a little adrift, like something was missing. Like she felt right now. The look on his face when he turned away that last time was like door a slamming. As if she hadn't slammed it first. _Oh, enough!_ She didn't want to dwell on it anymore.

"I said, nice working with you today, I'll see you next week for final fittings," Genie was saying.

Bonnie jumped a little as if startled. "Sorry, just doing some of my usual mental planning. Yeah, it's been fun, costuming's a new thing for me, who knew how clothes make the show, huh?" she asked Bob. She wasn't aware how forced she sounded.

Genie gathered up her stuff, but before she left she leaned in to whisper in Bonnie's ear, "Hope it works out with Tall Boy, luv." She didn't linger for a response.

"Okay, babe, take off," Bob ordered. "I don't wanna see you again until Tuesday, nine a.m. to get set for rehearsal."

Bonnie rose to leave. "Likewise, I'm sure."

"Hey, something bugging you? You seem kind of off. The guys said you were a little uptight this morning."

"They're enough to make Saint Peter uptight. Everything's cool. See you on Tuesday."

She put her office to rights, and headed for the bus stop. Bonnie loved her apartment in North Hollywood, only a few miles from the studio and right on the bus line. But the bus schedule could be a little schizo, and today was one of those days. It seemed like the only time anything ran near schedule was during rush hour at both ends of the day. It was only late afternoon, so all mass transit bets were off. She sat on the bench with a thump, feeling every bit like a little kid wanting to wail, "I wanna go _home_." She was so deep into her own head (almost empty of thought for once – who knew you could meditate at a Burbank bus stop?) that she didn't look up from the sidewalk until the third _long_ honk. By that time two familiar voices were blending with the sound.

Micky's slick black Mustang convertible… aka "The Chickmobile"… was pulled curbside in front of her, Davy hanging over the passenger side door. "Hey, miss, how do I get to Carnegie Hall?"

"Hey little girl, ya wanna ride? We got candy…" Micky leered.

Bonnie rolled her eyes. "I thought you guys were going to blow the roof off Whisky."

Davy's eyes widened in faux-shock, and he displayed his wristwatch. "My good woman, it is barely four p.m. One must work up to these things."

"Yeah, why not start with you?" Mickey suggested, "You're familiar, you're trustworthy, and we know you fight dirty. Great for a warmup."

She really did not want to hang out with the people she'd been staring at all day. _Yes, millions of teenage girls would drop dead to hear that one. _"Nah, it's been a long four-day week. I'm beat. And I'm not very good company right now."

Micky and Davy traded their most persuasive lines so rapidly it was difficult to separate them:

"Couldn't be any worse than you were this morning… c'mon, Bonnie, live a little… Expand your mind… hang out with the stars… swill some high class booze."

She found an opening, and dove in. "I don't drink with the talent."

Davy jumped on that one. "Aha! We _have_ no talent. Hop in," he opened his door and slid his seat forward. By now some traffic was backed up and someone wanted to pull around the Mustang. Honking and obscenities filled the air.

"_Okay_, okay! But don't say I didn't warn you." She climbed in the back, making a great show of examining the leather upholstery. "I hope you got the back seat cleaned recently…"

"Bonnie, you insult me!" Micky chided and corrected, "in the Chickmobile, we do it in the _front_ seat."

Davy shifted a little and pulled a face. "Driver's side, I hope?"

Bonnie laid her head back on the seat and enjoyed the wind blowing her long hair back. "Where to first?"

"Guido's!" Micky shouted, "Best pizza on the planet!"

_My god… I'm running with newborn millionaires… and all they want is pizza. _She knew there was a reason she liked these lunatics.

* * *

><p>By ten-thirty, Whisky A Go-Go was halfway packed to the walls (standard for a Thursday night) and Bonnie was sitting at the bar working on her fourth Jim Beam. She'd hit the dance floor a few times with the guys, but Micky and Davy were out for wilder game. Other male types who seemed nice enough to dance with always seemed to have a girl nearby who just happened to recognize Bonnie from Monkees press call photos and "just wondered" if she'd mind introducing them to… etc. So, since she had a lift home – cab fare had been promised, since the guys were guaranteed- gonna-get-lucky – she resolved to get full-blown, fall on her face, stoned ass drunk. Not that it was hard to do, having only had one slice of pizza since her coffee at lunch. With four days available to recover from a hangover, and nothing else she wanted to share her mind with, she settled in to commune with Jim. She was doing pretty well, too, except for the one guy who bought her another (okay, was she on her fifth? numbers were getting fuzzy) drink and sidled up a little too closely for comfort. By the time he had one hand around her shoulders and the other reaching between her knees, the bartender had intervened and told the guy to move on.<p>

"Thanks," she didn't-quite-slur. "Didn't wanna have to deck 'im."

The bartender was about to laugh when someone said, "You'd better believe her, man, she's tough stuff when she gets going."

"Peter!" Bonnie cheered happily, and then ordered, "Buy me a drink."

The bartender held up five fingers.

"Maybe later. I came back to the studio to pick up some strings and Jimmy at the gate said he saw you being forced into a black Mustang by two shady looking characters." He looked around the bar and dance floor. "They didn't dump you here, did they?"

"Nah," she shook her head. "I dumped them. The Jones 'n' Dolenz show, it's wipes me out, it's like Abbot and Costello on dexies." She heaved a sigh and drained her glass, then motioned with it to summon the bartender. He glanced at Peter.

"He's not my keeper," Bonnie informed him irritably. "Gimme 'nother, I'm not drivin'. I got the cash, you got the booze," she turned to Peter, "a match made in heaven." She paused long enough to pick up the now-full glass. "Unlike some."

"Bonnie, babe, take it easy." He tried to slide the glass away but she pulled it back protectively.

"Baaaabe," she exaggerated the word. "You guys like that word don't ya, 'babe' this and 'babe' that, men women, doesn't matter. Could be anybody. Nice lazy word for people you don't care if you know for very long."

She was half past wasted, Peter could see, so he just let her rave on. When she drained the mostly-full glass in a single gulp, he turned toward the bartender and ran a surreptitious finger across his throat, which was answered with a nod. The empty glass was left where Bonnie had carelessly bumped it on the bar.

"Babe," she repeated with a sneer that immediately disappeared as she leaned toward Peter. "_He_ never called me that, not once." She dropped her head into her hands for a minute, and then looked at him again. "So why does he have to be such an _asshole_?"

Peter didn't need a crystal ball to tell who Bonnie was talking about. Unfortunately for Peter's conscience, Mike had threatened him with bodily harm if he revealed to Bonnie that he, and not Mike, had told Bob about the résumé. Mike was convinced beyond reason that Bonnie would take that as final proof of betrayal and be convinced both of them were lying to save Mike's ass. Why it mattered now he couldn't guess, but he also couldn't control a little anger that Mike would take off for a long weekend of music hunting in New York and leave such a mess behind him. But Peter couldn't come clean to Bonnie and clear it up… a promise was a promise, and he hoped that somewhere in the back of his mind that Mike was trying to come up with a fix for it.

"I thought he liked me," Bonnie groaned at her empty class. "Y'know enough to be nice, to go on like it goes on, he _said_ so." She was completely unaware of how freely she was talking. "Didn't wanna groupie… not much."

Peter put a hand on her shoulder (to steady her, in fact). "Mike doesn't think you're a groupie, Bonnie." _Oops. _"None of us do."

Suddenly she sat up, a little shakily, and announced, "I don't feel so good. Can I go home now?"

"You bet." Peter threw two twenties on the bar. "Keep it," he told the bartender. "C'mon, I'll drive you." They walked arm-in-arm to the exit, drawing the attention of a few celebrity-watchers.

"Smile," he told her as a flash went off, "we're gonna be a rumor."

"Nah who'd believe you could get so lucky," Bonnie managed to joke, but then clutched Peter harder as they got out the door. "Whirly!" she declared, and he held them still for a minute.

"Okay?"

"Yeah, now's just a little _wavy_."

Peter tossed Mike's keys to the valet and motioned to him to hurry. The "whore red" (Mike's term) Shelby Cobra convertible was brought screeching to a stop in front of them.

"Hey, man, easy on the wheels!" Peter yelled at the guy, then handed the valet a five as he held the door open so Bonnie could be shoveled into the front seat.

"Big spender, rock star." the valet sneered.

"Well next time don't strip the gears!"

"Up yours!" Bonnie shouted as they pulled away. "Whatta dick," she mumbled. She was silent for a minute but then her head jerked up from the back of the seat. "Hey, this's _Nesmith's_ lil' red rooster. Where'dya get it?"

"Swapped a ride to the airport for it, for the weekend." She didn't ask but he told her anyway, "He went to New York, looking for fresh music."

"Wellll, whoopee for Nesmith. Hope him and his dick have a _high_ old time."

Peter was about to laugh when Bonnie added plaintively, "Are we home yet Benny, beauteeful brother mine?"

Mike had mentioned her friend Benny, but no brother… oh well, she was dead drunk and could have been mixing up a dozen different memories.

"Just about," he promised as he pulled into the tiny patch of gravel that passed for her building's parking lot. "Just gotta get up the stairs."

* * *

><p>With Peter spotting her from behind, Bonnie hand-walked up the one flight to her door, and promptly dropped the keys she'd fished out of her bag. "Shit, get th'crowbar," she slurred, then almost collapsed in a fit of giggles.<p>

"You are a stone mess," Peter laughed as he picked up the keys, opened the door, and pulled Bonnie inside. He leaned her up against the wall with one arm as he switched on the light with his other hand. A ceiling fixture hung with silk scarves flooded the front entry with pastel light. Peter noticed she was staring at him.

"An' _you_ are a stone… something nice, I dunno," she murmured, and without warning pulled him around and into a full-on, open mouthed, lung-collapsing kiss.

For a microsecond Peter thought she was just too drunk to manage what she intended as a friendly good-night/thank you. But only for a microsecond. The next second he found himself letting it happen, and telling himself he only gripped her tighter to keep her from falling on her ass. Which was when he felt her grab _his_ ass, and at the same time felt a familiar but entirely inappropriate rush of blood to the South-East of his side-shifted belt buckle. _Holy shit._

"M-uuh-uh," he managed to pry his face away, and push himself back a step. Bonnie began to fall forward but he propped her back against the wall again. "Stop it. I mean it, stop it."

"Ah c'mon you're a big boy…" she teased drunkenly and tried to reach him again, but he held the space between them.

"Listen to me, will you? Ah, shit, you're stoned to the gills, but trust me… just stop."

"Don't think about Nesmith, he sure ain't thinking about me…" She freed a hand and grabbed for his belt to pull him closer. "Be sweet to me Peter… sweet Pete…"

"Goddammit Bonnie!" Peter broke away abruptly and let her slide to the floor. "I don't want this, okay? Quit making like a fucking groupie!"

"Like you're too good for 'em, I've seen you on the road… well maybe I'm just as good, why not give it a shot?"

He dropped to his knees in front of her. "Look at me, Bonnie. You're not a groupie and I wouldn't treat you like one."

"Oh yeah? Why not?"

He sighed. _Fuck you, Mike, leaving me with this._ "Because you're one of us. And because you're _drunk_ and out of your mind. Now help me help you get up, okay? And if you grope me again, I'm gone. I'd never treat you like a handy piece of ass, so try and return the favor, okay?"

Bonnie had never seen Peter pissed off. She was drunkenly ashamed to have driven him to it, so she shut up and leaned on him without reaching for anything she shouldn't.

"Bed or sofa?" Peter asked. The bedroom was through a doorway strung with glass beads and ribbon; the sofa was in the living room where they stood.

"Bed," she directed, and fell flat on it when they got close enough. Peter pulled off her sandals and found an afghan to spread over her, then found the kitchen. He filled a blown glass pitcher with water and brought it and a glass back to the bedroom and set it on the low table next to the bed. "Aspirin," he prompted.

"Bathroom," she mumbled, and pointed to a bright red door in the corner of the room. He rummaged in the medicine cabinet and brought the bottle back out, and set it next to the water.

"I'm sorry, Peter, I din't mean t'treat you like just ass..." She was on the verge of tears.

He didn't think he could handle a drunk, horny, _and_ crying Bonnie. Two out of three had been hard enough.

"That's okay, it was the booze groping. See? I still trust you." He sat on the bed to prove it. God, she looked so miserable. "You gonna be okay now?"

She nodded a little, then gulped. "Whirly," she gasped.

"Close your eyes, that'll help." A veteran of many bed-spins, Peter touched her eyelids closed. "Okay. I don't have to tell you how much you'll hate yourself tomorrow. Maybe even the next day."

"Cause I jumped you?"

"Well that too. But you called me 'sweet Pete'… possibly the _lamest_ thing you have ever said."

"Errgh."

"Dig that. I'll lock up on my way out." He risked leaning close enough to kiss her head. "Stone mess, my friend." She was already out cold. He shut out the lights, locked up after himself, and put the Cobra through some high-end paces all the way home.

Where he immediately took the longest, coldest shower of his adult life, all the while cursing his parents for raising him right.


	5. Desperate Measures, NYC

Mike thumped down on the bed and pulled off his boots, massaging his throbbing feet. After calling every club on the list he'd brought with him and coming up empty, he'd hit the streets and walked the Village block by block, asking questions and leaving messages for booking managers. Not that there was much for anyone to go on… "Benny, probably played a Martin, wrote his own tunes, outtasight technique" didn't ring any bells with anyone. But the people he talked to gave him other club names, other open hoot nights, so even if he didn't have so much as a description he had a growing crop of prospects. He'd never been much interested in the coffee house scene, he'd always preferred to hang with the people who had a solid career in mind, and swap tunes with whatever professionals he could find. Mike had to confess, what small snatches of stuff he'd heard so far erased all doubts of why Peter began in this crowd, and why he swore he'd return here if things ever bottomed out. And who the hell knew there were so _many_?

By eight pm on Saturday, though, he was fried too many ways to count. The better-known clubs had been more than happy to talk to him, but always tried to persuade him to "do a few tunes", no doubt to up their publicity a little. It made him glad he'd come "unarmed"; it was real easy to put people off with "I only play my Gretsch." The smaller nothing places were just as likely to recognize him, but didn't try to pry an impromptu (aka free) gig out of him, though truth to tell in a couple of instances he was sorely tempted to invite himself on stage to sit in. But now it was Saturday night, and he'd hit about a dozen music clubs since the night before by phone and on foot, and zilch was zilch. He pulled a raggedy napkin out of his back pocket, and looked at two more names: Back Alley, and Last Chance. He'd take 'em alphabetically tomorrow. Tonight he was _done_.

He stretched out on the bed, reached for the phone to call room service, and ordered a steak dinner and a six-pack of beer from the girl at the front desk. He recognized her voice, the one who'd checked him in. She'd played it cool, but it was obvious she knew exactly who he was, and he got the feeling she'd make her presence _known_ one way or the other, sooner or later. It had been easy to dodge the various hippie-types who'd randomly come on to him since he got into town; he'd been too busy club-hunting to pay them more mind than to give them an autograph and tell them "Maybe later, Sunshine," and disappear before they could ask where he was staying. He'd deliberately avoided the hotels that the tour stayed at, and picked a smaller, out-of-the way place close to the Village, high end but not high profile. He'd walked in without a reservation straight from the airport, and paid in cash, but the girl at the desk copped onto him in a heartbeat. She looked as if she were crossing out other names before she took his money and wrote him in the register, but he kept his mouth shut, hoping to fly under the radar.

* * *

><p>"<em>Well if you need anything, Mike, just dial me here. I work all weekend. My name is Rosie," she said with a smile that was more than customer service.<em>

Shit_. Using his first name was always an obvious sign. And she was pointing more at her generous cleavage than at her nametag, though the nametag was very strategically placed. _

Might as well call herself Tits, _he thought to himself._

"_I'll let you know," he responded casually, intentionally ignoring her name. She was coming around the desk._

"_I'll show you up to your room," she offered, still smiling the kind of smile that Mike had seen (and responded to) a fair number of times when offered by a fair number of other women._

"_I'll find my own way, thanks."_

"_Well can I at least have an autograph?" she called after him as he entered the elevator._

"_Later, Sunshine, right now I'm gonna crash."_

* * *

><p>Now he hung up the phone and lay staring at the ceiling, wondering why he'd come. Okay, so if he found the club where Bonnie and her friend used to hang out, what then? She'd said there were no tracks, anywhere. And even if there were… so what? Buy them, copy them, bring them back to L.A., then what did he expect would happen? He'd set out hoping that it might prove he wasn't the asshole she thought, but shit, she was so far back from him now this could do just the opposite. No, it wasn't just that, wasn't just that she thought he spilled something that she wasn't that worried about anyway. It was like she'd measured out this tiny bit more of herself that night in Chicago, just a little bit that maybe she shouldn't have, not yet. If it all had gone on like it had been going, she probably would have been fine. But some of that night, that measured bit of her, had leaked out and bang, there it was in her face in the daylight, and it was doing a number on her.<p>

"Ah, bullshit," he said aloud and sat up on the side of the bed. Two simple things were happening: Bonnie had shut down whatever was working between them, and she'd lost that smile he liked so much. Nothing magic, just a smile with no agenda. And it was gone as if it had been slapped off her face. _These_ things were what he came here to change, and since he couldn't make sense of them in his head, Mike figured that _doing_ something that didn't make sense might just do the trick.

The knock at the door pulled him out of his head. _Thanks… my head is a messed up place to be right now._ "Yeah."

"Room service."

When he opened the door there was Rosie, with the cart.

"I thought the restaurant took care of this," Mike said.

"I paid Ramon five bucks to let me do it." She was smiling that inviting smile again. Still.

Mike stood looking at her, _all_ of her. Willing smile, cute face, a body he could enjoy the hell out of for a few hours, and all for the price of a few pretty words and an autograph.

"C'mon in, Sunshine."

* * *

><p>She sat with him while he ate, drinking a couple of his beers and chattering amiably about pop music and how much she loved the show, how she'd seen the Monkees when they came to New York on tour but never in a million years dreamed she'd actually be <em>sitting and talking<em> with one of them. She didn't ask why he was in town. He figured her for seventeen years old, eighteen tops. When he'd finished his steak and killed a couple of beers himself, she tidied up the tray and sat on the arm of his chair.

"My shift's over… I don't have to leave right away." She leaned on his shoulder, her long blonde hair falling inside his collar.

"That so?" He looked up at her; when she leaned in to kiss him he let her slide into his lap and slipped an arm around her. She was good with that mouth; that was a fact. He picked her up easily and sat them both down on the bed, and she crawled into his lap again.

"I heard you're real nice to be with," she purred into Mike's ear. "One of my friends said her sister met up with you after your New York gig, and you were _real_ nice to her…"

Even as he was opening his mouth to her, Mike's brain struggled for an image… _New York gig, some girl, first night, or second, first girl, or second, or third? _

He pulled his mouth away. "Well I try to be a nice guy… I'm here to try to be a nice guy…" _Bonnie's not smiling anymore, and I've barely even tasted her… _

"I don't care why you're here, I _know_ why I'm here," Rosie answered as she reached between them and handily undid his belt buckle.

Mike grabbed her hands and held her still. "What's your last name, Rosie?"

She looked a little uneasy. "Does that matter?"

_That's one._

"Y'know that the tour was the first time the producers let us play for real?"

"Uh, wow," and she dropped her head to kiss and nibble his neck. "You don't have to play anything now…"

_That's two._

"And what if I don't wanna give you an autograph? Still up for it?" This time he tightened his grip on her, and gave her a kiss that sent his tongue halfway down her throat while sliding one hand under her blouse. "Whaddaya say, Sunshine? How about some nice anonymous fucking? I got nothing going on til tomorrow."

Rosie pulled back hard. "But if I don't get an autograph nobody will _believe_ me!"

_That's three._

"I can fix that," he told her in an extra-velvety voice. He tipped her over onto her back and gave each of her partly-exposed breasts a lazy lick before standing getting up and going to the writing desk. As she lay there expectantly unbuttoning her blouse, Mike grabbed a pen and tore off half a sheet of hotel stationery, writing quickly.

"Here," he tossed the note in her cleavage. This time his voice had a nasty edge. "Tell all your friends you were with Mike Nesmith."

Rosie's come-fuck-me smile disappeared as she examined the piece of paper. Written in slashy but perfectly legible script, it read: "Not fucked by Mike Nesmith, 1967." The autograph would be unmistakable.

She got off the bed and buttoned up hastily. "I don't get it," she told him, more disappointed than angry. "My friend's sister said…"

"I'm sure your friend's sister was a fine fuck, but it's hard to tell 'em apart after a while." He picked up his wallet and pulled out a ten, this time handing it to her instead of throwing it.

"Here's your tip, plus the five you paid for me. Now get lost, before I decide to tell your boss how friendly you are to the guests." He pushed the room service cart in her direction. "And take this with you, will ya? Thanks."

After she'd gone he noticed his jeans were halfway undone, and that he was halfway hard. "Sorry, _amigo_," he apologized to his fading erection, "looks like selfishness is a virtue tonight."

* * *

><p>When Mike got out of the shower he noticed his message light was blinking so he grabbed the phone and dialed the desk.<p>

"Hey, three-fifteen I have a message?"

To his relief, a man responded. "Yes, Mr. Nesmith, Ari Lowenstein from Club Strings Attached, requests you call him back." Mike grabbed for the pen and wrote down the number, then dialed it immediately.

"Strings Attached, we have two spots left for Thursday's hoot," greeted a young male voice.

"Hi, I'm looking for Ari Lowenstein, he left a message at my hotel."

"He's pretty busy right now, who's this?"

"Tell him it's Mike Nesmith, returning his call."

Dead silence, then, "Uh, okay, sure, hang on…"

"Mike Nesmith!" announced an older-sounding man in a nasal, Brooklyn-accented voice. "Nick from the Village Gate tells me you're asking some questions about a young guitarist who used to play here."

"Yeah! Yes, Mr. Lowenstein, I'm trying to find out where a guy named Benny used to play about three years ago, he'd come every hoot night with his friend Bonnie Morris, mid-late twenties, dirty blonde hair. Bonnie, not Benny. I don't have any description for him, but I think he played a low-rent Martin six string. And goddamn well, from what I was told."

"I heard Bonnie was working on your show, but I never heard doing what. You know her? How well?" The voice at the other end sounded suspicious, even paternal.

"Well, yes sir, I do know her, she works pretty closely with me and the other guys. She's assistant to our producer Bob Rafelson. She told me a little something about her friend Benny, and the music he played, and I thought I'd try to track it down." There was a moment's silence, and Mike prompted, "Mr. Lowenstein? You still there?"

"Call me Ari. Yes, he played open hoot here almost every week, and he played better than goddamned well. But he didn't play under the name Benny, which is why you've been having a hard time finding out anything. Benjamin was his full name, but everyone knew him as B.J., for Benjamin Joseph. He played as B.J. Morris. You say Bonnie told you they were 'friends'?"

Mike didn't speak at first, caught on the word "Morris." After a few seconds he asked, just to be sure, "Did you say 'Morris'?"

"Young man, can you come see me at the club? This is a little deep to cover on the phone. Is eleven o'clock too late? We'll just be winding down, and I'll have some time to talk." He gave Mike the directions.

"Okay, thanks Mr. Lowenstein. Sorry, Ari. Gimme twenty minutes." Mike dialed the desk. "Hi, three-fifteen, I need a cab to a club called Strings Attached. I'll give the drive the directions if he needs 'em."

On the way to the lobby Mike worked hard not to think too much about anything he'd just heard, waiting to hear the rest from this Ari guy.

_Well I came looking for ghosts. Pete was right… careful what you wish for._


	6. Treasure

"Mike, a pleasure to meet you, glad you could come out on such short notice."

As Mike shook hands with balding, burly man it occurred to him that Ari Lowenstein looked more like the owner of a kosher deli than the proprietor of a counter-culture music club.

"Well I'm glad you called, Mr. Lowenstein. I'd almost given up." He sat in the chair he'd been ushered to, at a table near the now-empty stage.

"Ari," Ari corrected, and waved to a longhaired young man. "Jimmy, bring us a couple beers, okay?" He turned to Mike with a conspiratorial wink, "Coffee house, schmoffee house, after hours I drink what I like." When two uncapped bottles arrived, he handed one to Mike. "To catching the wild goose," he toasted, and they clinked bottles and took long swallows. "Now, Mike Nesmith, you're a man with a lot more to do than wander around the Village looking up dead musicians. Before I say more than I've said already, I'd like to know why you're asking."

Mike eyed Ari, noting that Ari was eyeing him with the same caution that was evident in his voice on the phone. "I'll be honest, I'm not too sure myself." The other man's steady gaze told him he'd better come up with a better answer, though he firmly decided he wouldn't go into the details of the hotel room in Chicago. He had the feeling that Ari had more than a casual interest in Bonnie and her welfare, and any musician who might care to trifle with them. He took another hit of the beer. "Okay, I'll be more honest. Bonnie and I have kinda gotten friendly, we got to know each other working on the show, kind of hung out, and talked enough to start to know each other a little more than we expected to. Don't know if I can explain it, but it's like looking up and noticing somebody's there that you might have been waiting for without knowing it. No rush, just nice and cool, and you get so you're looking forward to it. It's like that with me and Bonnie. Who knows where it's going, but it's nice where it is. You dig?"

Ari nodded, looking like he was weighing Mike's words for substance. "I should be wondering why a number one rock star and party boy should have an interest in the boss's secretary." He paused for a minute, noting Mike's tightening expression. "But I don't. One thing I've learned in this business," he waved a hand around the room, indicating the varied hippie types cleaning up and talking and generally enjoying themselves, "it's that connections come in all shapes and sizes and they don't always sneak up and hit you on the head. Like you said, sometimes you look up and there it is."

Mike drained the rest of his beer. "Yup. And to answer your question, I came because I'm looking for something that'll fix something that's getting Bonnie down. We had a little mix-up that she's taking way too hard, but that's not it. I don't know what started things turning, but I think right now Bonnie's feeling kind of lost in her head. I'm guessing she's wishing for some of that music she loved so much when she and her friend Benny came here, so I thought I'd try to find it and it would help. Hell, I don't _know_ if it will, but it's all I could think of. Problem is, she says it never got put down on tape anywhere. I'm hoping she was wrong. "

"You seem like a nice guy, Mike," Ari observed. "Better than some of the schmucks who get a taste of success and decide the world and everyone in it is their own personal snack bowl." Mike colored a bit at that, and Ari went on, "Oh I see the papers and hear the inside talk, I know the 'monk' part of Monkees is only a coincidence of the name. But I don't think you'd come all this way to impress a casual piece of ass." Now he laughed. "I wish you could see your face right now. I may _look_ like the corner butcher, but I've been in this business a long time, and I've seen plenty. I get a good feeling about you, in a general way." He finished his beer and sat back in his chair. "You're right, Siobhan and B.J. were here like clockwork every Thursday for the hoots, and for the showcases on Saturdays when there were extra sets."

"Siobhan?" Mike knew Ari had to be talking about Bonnie, but the name was a shock.

"Siobhan Maureen Morris. She changed it to Bonnie after B.J. died. Not so much trying to erase her past as, well, maybe re-tool her present and future. B.J. was her twin brother, so when she lost him it changed her enough that changing her name seemed natural, I guess. I don't know a whole lot about them before they walked in here about five years ago. They lost their parents either together or separately when they were teenagers, and went on together. Joined at the soul, I used to say. You know how twins are, like two halves of the same person, and that was them for sure. When he played she'd sit ringside with their friends and the times I saw her when B.J. was playing it was like she was in a trance, just wrapped up in every note he played. She begged him to record his stuff, and she wasn't the only one. I bet you'll agree that it's a crime that the best music could die with its own echo." When he looked to Mike for a response, Ari could see the blank surprise in his face. "Yeah, she never told you. I'm not surprised. When she came in that night and told me about that phone call from North Carolina, she looked like she'd pulled that part of her inside and zipped up tight. Not a secret, really, more like…"

"Treasure." Mike had finally found his voice.

The older man nodded, smiling to himself. "Trust a songwriter to find the right word…yeah exactly like treasure. Her name, his name, seemed like all of this was suddenly too valuable to expose to daylight, you could say. I don't mind telling you, she had me pretty worried for a while. It was like part of her really _was_ gone, when she came here after that, there was this phantom shadow next to her where B.J. used to be. It was almost like she was expecting to see him onstage. She seemed to be the only one who didn't get that we could see what was going on. Believe it or not, I was relieved when she said she was going to California. She needed to go _somewhere_ and live, and she wasn't going to be able to do that here in New York with B.J.'s ghost sitting next to her all the time. When she left it wasn't to run away from anything, it was to go to something else she'd been planning to look for already. So she got her new name to help her get that new life, and kept all the rest inside so it wouldn't get in the way." Ari called for two more beers, and he and Mike drank them down in silence, which Ari broke.

"Says a lot that she told you even a little, even if it was her outside-version. I'm hoping you deserved it."

"Mister, I am trying to," Mike assured him, and gestured suddenly in frustration. "She sure don't make it easy sometimes." The last words escaped before he could stop them, but he could see Ari was smiling.

"Even B.J. used to tell her that," Ari said. "You could say Siobhan has a tendency to err on the side of silence. She's brave enough to start a new life, but when it comes to her own self she'll hold her cards to her vest with a death grip and God help anyone who tries to look at 'em too soon, even if she's tipped them a little. They'll find themselves standing in her dust, and it's a goddamn shame."

Mike nodded. "Dead right, both times."

Ari suddenly slapped his hands on the table, startling his visitor. "Well enough of this sad talk. You'll find out all you need to know from Siobhan… from _Bonnie_, if you're meant to know it. But you came here for a reason, and you came to the right place. Hey Jimmy, c'mere."

When Jimmy, who seemed to be Ari's right-hand man, appeared, Ari instructed, "You know the special files I got in the office, the ones that ASCAP doesn't know about? Go in and grab the tape marked 'B.J. last set' and bring it here, thanks." Then he turned to Mike and explained, "We've got a bad habit of taping some of the good ones. Problem is you never know when they might hit it big and come calling with a lawyer, so it's our little secret, get it?"

"Got it," Mike agreed. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. "You mean you have a tape of Benny, I mean B.J.'s, last gig here?"

"Better than that," Ari confided, "I got the tape he made in North Carolina, when he'd just worked out the new tunes."

"But Bonnie said it never got made…"

"The _demo_ never got made," Ari corrected. "But B.J. sent this one to me. It didn't get here until after the accident, and at the time I didn't think it would be a good idea for Bonnie to hear it. Then one thing led to another, and it got filed with the club tapes. By the time I remembered it, she'd already gone to California, and except for one phone message left on a night I wasn't here, I didn't hear from her again. No address, no nothing. And I didn't want to send it to her job, I didn't know how she'd take it."

Jimmy returned with a sealed-up reel-to-reel box, marked as Ari had described. He took it, and handed it to Mike.

"You give this to her. You tell her Ari Lowenstein still remembers her and B.J., and hopes now is a good time."

Mike received the box from Ari as if it held the Kohinoor Diamond. "I can pay you…" he began, but Ari shut him off.

"Don't insult me, young man. I'm sure you can pay for a _lot_ of things, but this isn't one of them. You just give it to her, and tell her what I told you." He paused and scribbled on a nearby coaster. "And if she wants, tell her she can call me here. It wouldn't kill her to let me know she's okay." He stood as if to indicate the impromptu meeting was ended.

Mike extended his hand as he got up. "I'm real glad to have met you, Ari. I can't believe Bonnie didn't say anything about you."

"I can, and I don't mind. What kind of person minds being considered treasure? Have a safe flight home, and next time you come," he suggested with a wink, "bring that Gretsch. We've been known to do some private jamming after hours. Jimmy, get Mr. Nesmith here a cab to his hotel." Then he was gone about the business of closing his club for the night.

* * *

><p>Back at his hotel Mike lay in bed, not even trying to sleep. Unaccustomed to sleeping alone on the road, he'd (briefly) considered calling one of the several numbers that had been pressed into his hand or tucked into his pocket in the past couple of days. But tonight in the battle between hormonal habit and sense, sense had won. Besides, it wasn't worth the hassle of figuring out what to do with all that anonymous wide-eyed wonder the morning after when he'd had so much searching to do. And now, having found what he wanted, he wasn't really in the mood to share his time and space with anyone, especially not some dewy-eyed fan.<p>

As he considered the wide empty bed next to him, Mike remembered waking just before dawn that morning in Chicago. He'd found Bonnie sprawled carelessly next to him, head resting on his outstretched arm, the colors of the tie-dyed long johns she wore as pajamas barely visible as shades of grey in the morning light. Almost as if she'd landed there by accident... a welcome accident, as accidents go. Just as he'd been wanting to reach out to pull her closer, she'd turned toward him a little in her sleep and her hair had slipped warmly against his skin. Suddenly content to leave things as they were, he'd gone back to sleep.

Now the contrast between that night-scene and the usual ones struck him clearly. Since the band had hit it big, waking to someone in his bed triggered in Mike the urge pull back, not reach out. Whoever was there would already have served a familiar purpose for both of them, burning off that horny rush that seemed to consume most everybody after a high-energy gig. After an intense connection consisting solely of "rock star sex" it was all over but the leaving, aka "morning after awkward." But that night in Chicago the connection consisted of something less easy to describe, and waking to Bonnie lying next to him (after _no_ kind of sex) had left Mike with a comfortable sense that nothing was "over" at all. _Comfortable_. That was damn sure a new experience.

He reached for the phone to dial TWA. "Hi, I need to change a flight I have scheduled for Monday night. What have you got for Sunday afternoon?" Once he'd confirmed a two p.m. departure, he dialed again.

"Hey, Pete."

"Mike? It must be three a.m. there, what's up?"

"Change of plans, man, I'm coming home tomorrow, I mean today, got an afternoon flight outta here. I'll be in L.A. about five, your time."

"Okay, I'll be there. You find what you were looking for?" Somehow Peter knew it was more than just a few days to get his head together.

"Yeah, more than I thought. Look man… never mind, I'll explain later. Thanks."

"No sweat. See you tomorrow."

"Wait a minute… how's Bonnie doin'?"

Peter laughed a little. "Still getting over a world record hangover. For her, anyway. Turns out she's kind of a lightweight in the party department." He didn't bother to go into details of their night at the Whisky a Go-Go or its awkward finish. "I could be wrong, but she might be ready to talk. For what it's worth."

"Thanks, man. See you tomorrow." He hung up, then called the desk. "This is Mike Nesmith in three-fifteen. I'll need a ten o'clock wake up call, and a cab to JFK for a two o'clock flight. And do me a favor, put some flowers on my tab for Rosie. We had a little misunderstanding and I don't wanna leave with hard feelings. Thanks."

After hanging up for the last time, Mike hit the lights and rolled onto his side to sleep. Instead of hasty autographs and quick escapes, he dreamed of tie dyed long johns and careless welcome accidents, and treasure.


	7. Desperate Measures LA, Part II

_Sunday 5:45 pm_

Mike dumped his bag into the back of the Cobra as Peter tossed him the keys.

"Not a scratch on 'er," the latter indicated proudly. "Not that it didn't get a little mileage."

"Don't look like much to me," Mike observed as he glanced at the odometer.

"Man, mileage ain't just distance," Peter sighed. "So, tell me what you found in New York."

So Mike told, as they drove to Peter's pad. He gave Peter the details of his unexpected conversation with Ari Lowenstein, and finished by jerking a thumb over his shoulder toward his bag.

"I got what I went there for… the music Morris thinks only lives in her head. The only thing I could think of that might calm things down for her."

As they roared into Peter's driveway he asked, "But she doesn't even wanna _look_ at you, man. How you gonna get her to listen, even to that?"

Mike hopped out and followed Peter into the house. "That's where _you_ come in, Banjo Boy. Grab the phone and get dialing."

* * *

><p><em>6:30 pm<em>

"Hey Bonnie, sorry to bother you on a day off, but I need you to listen to something."

Shit. It was Sunday night, and today had been the first time since Thursday afternoon that Bonnie didn't feel like throwing up or cutting off her head. Not that she'd been doing anything useful except hanging out in her apartment and brooding. Enough time had passed that she was beginning to realize what a big fat nothing Nesmith's "betrayal" had been. He just wasn't the gossiping type; in fact he downright hated all the trash talk that happened at the studio, and in the business in general. If he'd mentioned anything about her "dark secret" it was probably by accident. Crap, who cared, it didn't matter anyway, she _knew_ Bob wouldn't give a shit at this stage of the game. What set her off was she scared herself to death by spilling it in the first place to somebody who seemed to invite that kind of thing from her without even trying. Without even _knowing_. It was just too _weird_, this stuff with Nesmith, it came out of nowhere and… she didn't care where it went as long as it kept going. _Well I guess I took care of that all right._ She might just be ready to face everyone again on Tuesday. Maybe.

"_Peter, please, can't it wait until Tuesday?"_

He was shaking his head and scowling at Mike, who encouraged him with threatening looks.

"Aw, c'mon, I got some new banjo tracks," here he threw a smirk at Mike, who rolled his eyes. "I'm thinking you might know a way to work 'em into the show's sound track."

"_You mean get 'em past Don, God's gift to music-by-numbers? You give me way too much credit. Sorry, no sale. See you and your Wildwood five-string on Tuesday." _She couldn't stand Kirshner, the smug bastard, no matter _what_ magic he wove from demographics and session musicians.

Now Peter was rolling his eyes, and holding the receiver to his head as if it were a gun.

_Guilt_… Mike was mouthing silently... s_ad puppy! _He put on a wide-eyed-orphan face.

Peter flipped him the finger in return, but tried again.

"C'mon Bonnie, you owe me. I saved you from sleeping at the Whisky on Thursday."

"_Bullshit. David and Micky had me covered."_

Peter laughed into the phone, "Yeah, right. Look, like it or not I dragged your ass home. A lesser man would have taken advantage. Least you can do is listen to my goddamn banjo track and tell me if it stands a chance."

By now Bonnie was lying on the sofa, the phone propped next to her head.

"_For christsake Peter, what do you want from me? I've been sick for the last two days. All I did was grab your ass, how long do I gotta pay for it?"_

At the other end of the phone Peter was eyeing Mike, who had a fist cocked to show Peter what he'd get if he failed to get Bonnie to the studio. Time to go for broke.

"You 'just grabbed my ass' and damn near bit my _tongue_ out! Nice way to say thanks for the lift."

_"Okay, okay, JeSUS, I don't guess if I was seventeen you'd be carrying on like this. Fine. I'll listen to your stinking banjo tracks. But I'm not taking the bus. Pick me up at my place."_

"Great. Be there in twenty." Peter hung up the phone and faced Mike with a cocky smile. "Outraged virtue knows no pride."

Mike's shades were on top of his head, and his eyes were wide as hub caps. "She damn near what your _what_ out?"

"Long story," Peter offered as he grabbed his own car keys and headed for the door. "I'll tell you later."

"Can't _wait_." Mike fished in his bag in the back of his car, and pulled out the tape. "Here, _don't_ let her see the label. Just cue it up in the mixing booth and hand hear the ears and beat it."

"Then what?" Peter wanted to know.

"Beats the hell out of me, man. I'm just making it up as I go along."

* * *

><p><em>7:40 pm<em>

"This better be the best goddamn thing since Earl Scruggs invented three-finger style," Bonnie warned Peter as he cued up the tape. He hung onto the box as she took the headphones from him.

"Just sit and listen, okay? I got some stuff to do up the hall." He put the box down just out of her sight and left.

"Goddamn psycho music-actor-hippie-freak," Bonnie muttered as she reached for the switch. When the tape started rolling, she was lost to the world.

* * *

><p><em>7:55 pm<em>

Bonnie rewound the tape and searched for the box it came in. She found it nearby. Inside was a scrap of staff paper with a familiar scribble of handwriting. "Hope this helps, N." When she'd carefully replaced the reel of tape in the box and shut it up tight, she saw _"B.J. last set- Strings Attached 1964"_ in neat black letters on the label. She stared hard at them until they floated in front of her eyes. It didn't take much deep thought to figure out where this had come from… Nesmith went to New York, found the club, found the tape she never knew existed, and brought it back. _Hope this helps. _God. If only it were that simple. It helped, and it didn't, and it made everything she'd done last week that much worse, while answering the one absolute regret she'd held onto for years. Some of Benny survived, and it didn't depend on her memory for its existence. The knowledge saved her soul and broke her heart at the same time.

Bonnie put the box down on the console, and pressed her hands over her ears as if she could seal the music inside her head. It hurt too much to picture the length of plastic tape on the reel; it looked all wrong for that to be all that was left of him. She stood, not really knowing where she'd go, then stopped and leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the booth's window, exhaling a shaky breath.

When Mike slipped into the booth, Bonnie didn't seem to notice. It wasn't until the door swung shut that she turned to look at him, startled, as if she wasn't ready. The mix of emotions on her face was hard to read, but the words were spoken with painful clarity. "I should have told you…"

He stood just inside the door, solemn-eyed and silent. He could see how she was struggling, and wished he had some ready words that would make it easier for her.

"What do I say first?" she continued raggedly. "I'm sorry? Thank you?"

He turned his hands palm-up and beckoned with a gentle smile, "How about somethin' simple, like 'Hi, Nesmith'."

She almost made it, but was so desperately ashamed of everything she'd said (and hadn't said) she couldn't take a step toward him.

"I don't know… I can't… I'm so afraid I _broke_ something…"

She sounded so sad and scared that Mike reached out and drew her close enough so she had to tip her head up to look him in the eye.

"'Hi, Nesmith,'" he coaxed. "Give it a shot."

"Hi, Nesmith." She needed to say more, which was stupid. A few days ago when he wanted so badly to talk, she wouldn't. Now she was desperate to take back the silence she'd forced between them. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't…"

He shook his head and silenced her with a finger pressed to her lips. "Ssh." Then the fingers traced her cheek, her chin, and his hand stroked down the back of her head as he leaned down and whispered against her cheek, "C'mon now, we just got crossed up a little. I promise nothing's broken. It's not even bent very much."

Bonnie relaxed against him then. She stood on tiptoe to press her face inside his collar, where she could feel the pulse in his neck and smell the traces of Ivory Soap, so close to him it felt as if those long arms were wrapped around her twice. Mike kept talking to her in that quiet voice, "If you wanted me to know everything, you would've told me. If you ever want to, I'm gonna listen. If you don't, that's cool too. It's completely, totally _okay_. Can you dig that?" He raised her head and made her look at him. "_Can_ you?"

"Uh-huh," she promised, then gestured toward the tape on the console. "I _lied_ to you, and I don't even know why… so why did you do all this, go all the way to New York to look for a part of my life I didn't even have the guts to tell you about?"

Long fingers brushed some hair from her face as he regarded her with a wry smile.

"You looked like you needed something, and sister a kiss from a pissed off songwriter _wasn't_ gonna do it this time, even if I could've gotten close enough." He studied her face with that earnest wide-eyed expression, and ran a finger along her lower lip. "Morris, baby you stopped _smiling_, and that was a complete drag. I thought maybe finding Benny's music might fix that, but did I guess right?" He continued to trace light fingertips on her face, picking up tears as he went. "This doesn't look like a smile. Try again."

Giving in to his deliberate charm, Bonnie nodded, and smiled through her tears. Partly because Mike needed it; mostly because he was right. Benny's music always made it impossible not to smile. "Is that better?"

"Right on." He held her there in front of him, hands on her waist, fingers spreading, looking closely into her. "Now if you don't mind, it's been a hell of a long weekend, and I _really_ need a little sugar…" Mike moved his hands to her face and drew Bonnie into a long kiss that she returned the way she'd wanted to that night in Chicago: one hand curled around the back of his neck, the other buried in those lush waves of dark hair. She could feel him smile as his mouth opened against hers and he wrapped her up tighter against him. It took her a minute to realize he was turning back and forth, rocking them a little from side to side, and she could hear (_feel_) a quiet humming in his throat. "Now that is _much_ more like it."

Bonnie looked up at him and said, "Now if _you_ don't mind… thank you."

"Well ma'am, you are surely welcome. My lips are at your disposal," he drawled, deadpan. When this made her smile again he added, "There you go. Can't do that without getting some more of this," and he kissed her once more. Suddenly she pulled back and buried herself against his shoulder again, arms wrapped tight around his waist. He could feel her crying.

"I'm really trying to pull it all together, to explain it to you so it makes sense," she gasped, "but it's hard, it's all bunched up in my head." She'd seen it in his face, the knowledge he'd gotten from somebody else because he'd gone off to find a way to make her listen, and talk, and be the way they'd been, whatever it was. "It's like my head's all full of broken pieces of things right now…" She was pulling away, shaking her head, "If I could just pull it _together_."

Mike rubbed her back and told her, "Hey, now. Don't get so messed up over some loose pieces." He locked her against him tightly enough so she couldn't move, rocking them together, saying nothing for a while. Finally he suggested softly, "Why don't you just let 'em rest a while, okay? Do like I do when we catch up with each other… just let 'em lie and forget 'em for a while. I still don't know why, but when you show up it just gets easier." She shuddered with a long sigh.

"That's scary, because I sure don't work that way on _me_." She turned her face into his shoulder, searching for his fragrance again, knowing how it calmed her down. "But you do."

"I think we're getting back to 'who knows why'," he observed as he bent his head to trace kisses on her hair, then brushed it aside with one hand so he could continue along her ear and down to her cheek.

"Jesus-God but you are good at this," Bonnie told him, turning her face a little to invite more attention from that soft mouth. "You do and say just what it takes to drive the crazy out of my head."

He was smiling that gentle smile again, the one that (she was just now realizing) turned her guts to Jello. "Nice to know, but damned if I know how. You feelin' a little better about things now?"

"Yeah, actually." Bonnie stepped back from Mike and stared hard at him. "I still have no idea what's going on. You?"

"Nope." He reached out and tapped her nose. "But it's still working for me. How about a drive?"

"Where to?" Bonnie asked.

Mike picked up the tape box and gestured with it. "Someplace with an outtasight music system, to make this sound like you never imagined."

She looked a little uneasy as he led the way out of the mixing booth. "I dunno, I'm not sure how I'll handle it."

"You'll be fine, Morris," he assured her and draped an arm around her shoulders as they walked to the exit. "And if you're not, I got plenty of space for you to recover between tracks. Besides," he winked as he opened the car door to let her in, "I'm waiting to hear about you grabbing Peter's ass and biting his tongue out. Sounds like that story is gonna be a _long _one."

Mike shifted the Cobra into high gear and stretched his arm out to tangle his fingers in Bonnie's hair, and she laid her head back against his hand and shut her eyes as the wind rushed around her. They still didn't know where any of this had come from, but at least it was still going.


End file.
